


HEI$T: a jjk fic

by lucidly



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bad Boy Jeon Jungkook, Bad Boy Min Yoongi | Suga, Blood and Violence, Corporate Espionage, Dom Jeon Jungkook, Espionage, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gun Violence, Heist, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jeon Jungkook is Bad at Feelings, Major Character Injury, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Smut, Spies & Secret Agents, Top Jeon Jungkook, Torture, Vigilante AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucidly/pseuds/lucidly
Summary: "If I can touch it, I can steal it."This mantra has powered Mona through her dark, impoverished past. Now, 6 years after being thrown into the world of forgery, espionage, and heists, she and her team face competition like never before: The Bulletproof Boy Scouts, a fabled Korean gang of thieves that everybody seems to know, but no one has seen. When she comes face to face with all 7 of them, Mona knows: they're real, and this job won't be like the others. For years she has followed the money, but could it be time that she follow her heart instead?BTS crime AU. Smut, fluff, angst to follow.
Relationships: Jeon Jungkook/Original Female Character(s), Jeon Jungkook/Reader, Jeon Jungkook/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. territory

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first BTS fic (and first fic ever on ao3) so please be gentle c: this chapter is more of an introduction, but feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments! future smut chapters will be tagged with an asterisk*, so keep an eye out in the index for them!

** Marrakech, Morrocco **

**19:15**

"I have eyes on the target," I say discreetly, pretending to check the time on my watch. The marketplace is bustling with bright colors and idle chatter. Despite the lack of personal space, however, there is always room to be followed. We learned that from Versailles.

"Don't pretend to know shit you don't," huffs an annoyed, low voice. From the corner of my periphery, I see DQ posted up at my 3 o'clock, his eyes hidden under dark sunglasses. He sticks out to me worse than a sore thumb, not just because of his bizarre get-up. His blistering ego is enough to drown out the sun. "Everybody _knows_ the Bangtan Boy Scouts, ain't nobody ever seen em before."

"Isn't it, like, racial profiling? Just singling out a fucking Korean in a bazaar?" Golightly tweets into the earpiece, interjecting.

I wrap my scarf tighter around my face, wiping a bead of sweat off of my brow. It's a good excuse to bring my watch back up to my face so I can tell DQ off. "And thanks to _your_ dumb ass, Quixote, everybody in the world knows you're a Truant... Maybe tuck your hillbilly beard into a bandana and keep your shit to yourself. You're lucky you're even out on the field right now," I hiss, with only a hint of humor. I watch through the dusty sunlight as the target slips around a booth, out of my sight. Still not convinced that I wasn't being watched, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, bringing the watch ever so slightly to the corner of my mouth. "Target moving southeast, deeper into the city... I'm pursuing."

I hear the protest of 4 voices blare into my right ear, and scoff. I'd lost him again in the bobbing sea of heads.

It is easy to get overwhelmed by the sights and sounds--the _smells--_ in the bazaar. _One day, I'll come back here_. That's what I'd always said whenever I'd been to a new place, and I always take my own word with a grain of salt. Staying out of sight, I chat idly with a stall owner in broken Arabic. When I resume my tail, I pick anxiously at my fingers. There are too many damn people. I bid the man goodbye, and plunge back into the crowd.

Sweeping my eyes to and fro, my focus flits between faces before I spy him again: long hair tied into a messy ponytail that bounces with each step. His face is obscured by a slim-fitting face mask pulled taut around his ears, but I recognize him easily--who dresses in all black in a market full of bright orange, yellow, blue? I slow my pace, having caught up to him, chatting idly with a stall owner.

I spot the frantic movement of his head before he even turned to glance at me. I curse, casually diverting my attention to the stalls adjacent to my path, praying that the young man up ahead had just been sweeping his six, and not suspicious of me. I know, however, that I am wrong, and grit my teeth as I take a hit to my pride.

_"Ishikawa, report."_

I stop in my tracks, my eyes trailing aimlessly at a jeweler's booth. It's Watson in my ear, and despite my defiant nature, I know that I have to respond here. Watson seldom spoke, but when he does, it's best to answer. I pull my bag up to my face as though searching for loose banknotes. "Into an alley, still south-southeast. Now shut the fuck up so we can get this god damn trip over with. It's hot."

The jeweler gently reaches out a hand to me, her dark fingers encircling my wrist as she gestures to a pretty opal bracelet that she clasped onto my arm. Pressed for time, I slip her a few dirham notes, to which she cries gratefully out to me as I walk away. So much for laying low.

"Fuck," I murmur, walking faster, drowning out the buzz of conversation in my earpiece. Golightly is bored in the safe house. Sherlock followed her tail to an arms dealer--had the place bugged already. Watson was visiting a contact back at the bazaar. I'd been tailing this guy since I spotted him a few hours ago, hoping maybe I'd find some valuable intel as well.

"'Shikawa, do you need backup?" DQ barks into his radio.

Tch. I face the alley, seeing the target pull a hat from his back pocket and draw it over his head, ponytail gone. He knew that someone--that I-- was on his tail. If I do more any waiting, I'd lose him. I plot it out in my head: I'd ditch the scarf at the end of the alley, ditch my button up and go on in the tank top I was wearing underneath. Ditch the braids. I could do it all in 10 seconds, and I could do it all on my own. And I'd definitely do it better than this _Bulletproof Boy Scout_. There's the sound of retreating footsteps. _Shit! I can't lose him!_

"No," I say into my watch. "I'm going radio silent. Rendezvous at Sunday School, 2030."

I power down radio functions, turning back to check my six. No one.

And then I hear it. The familiar click of a pistol's safety switching off.

And judging from the hard poke at the small of my back, it was pointing right at my liver.

 _"Radio silent,_ huh," chuckles the man, his breath on my neck, hotter than the Moroccan sun that had beat on us just minutes earlier. "I'm sure I said the same thing to my boys just a moment ago."

I hold my breath, clenching my teeth. I look out, back at the market we had just left, the unknowing passersby. I could yell, but drawing attention meant that the mission would be busted. Run, and I'm down on one of my two lungs, maybe some other artery. It'd be suicide to try and get out in such a slim place as this--whoever was on the other side of the barrel wouldn't even have to aim.

The Boy Scout must have read my mind, because he jams the gun harder into my back. "How long do you think it would take for you to get medical attention?" he drones bemusedly against the shell of my ear. "I reckon 30 minutes in this crowd, and with a shot to what I'm _hoping_ is your liver, you'd bleed out in maybe 15 or 20, considering your size."

"I reckon... 40 minutes to an ambulance, and considering the fact that you're pointing that thing at my right lung, it'll be five minutes or less til I die. Basic human biology." My nose twitches as I scramble desperately for some way out of this. I need to buy time. "Or do they not teach you that in South Korea?"

He laughs, the tone bright and hearty in contrast to his breathy tenor voice. "I was wondering why such a cutie was following me," he teases, adjusting the gun lower. I take a step forward to set some distance between us, maybe get a better look at his face, but he claps a big hand across my shoulders, forcing me closer to him, reminding me of the bullet that could rupture my organs with the twitch of a finger. You couldn't even slip a piece of paper between my back and his chest. "Unh-uh," he scolds. "I was hoping you'd be as smart as you are pretty, but I think you forgot," he twists the pistol into my waist, "who is in charge right now."

Fuck! Think. Am I a hostage now?

The shaded alley somehow feels warmer than outside in the sun, and our panting breaths are synchronized. Is he... scared? How the _hell_ could you be on the right end of a gun and be _scared_? Unless...

 _Sherlock followed her tail to the arms dealer_.

I smirk.

 _It's not loaded_.

At least, I hope it isn't. 50/50 chance, but that was much better than the odds I stood before.

I laugh aloud, unable to contain my realization. He tenses, and his strong arms tighten around me, viselike. "You know, in America, we have a saying," I begin, calculating how I would move within my next few breaths.

I sense confusion in his voice, but he feigns confidence using his body language. It's not convincing enough, however. I hear a nervous swallow from the back of his throat. "Maybe I've heard of it," he ponders. "Wha--"

I cut him off with an elbow to his gut, slamming the breath out of him. If we had been evenly matched, maybe I could have knocked him to the ground, but all I managed to do was knock him off me. Seizing my knife from my bag, I slice in his direction, a move that he could have easily avoided, but not in quarters this close. I hear the tear of fabric and flesh, seeing a gash of red against his pale arm. I send a kick to his chest one more time for good measure, and he crashes into one of the walls next to us. The gun in his hand falls, but not before I saw the squeeze of his fingers. _Click_.

His wide eyes are dumbfounded, and I grin. " _Don't bring a_ gun _to a knife fight_ ," I joke, still balancing the knife in my hands. There's a flash in his expression, and he charges at me. There's nowhere to go in such a tight space and I feel the impact of his body slamming into me from the front, and the wind getting knocked out of me when my back hits the dirt. My knife clatters somewhere behind me, knocked out of my grip.

Powerful thighs hold me down at my hips, straddling me. I feel his knees dig into my sides, an attempt to stop me from struggling. "I don't think that's how the saying goes," he says, shaking some of his hair out of the way. I swing an arm wildly, and he claps one hand down, easily holding them over my head in a compromising position, our faces inches apart.

From here, I can see the gentle slope of his nose, the pout of his lips. There's a playful aura in his eyes, the same way a cat might look at a mouse before it kills it. He has a bunny smile tugging at the pale cresent of his mouth. Though it's wildly inappropriate, I'm almost relieved that my new rival is strikingly handsome. "It was worth a try," I muse back, turning my face away to try and avoid the awkwardness.

Just when I think I can't have been put in a more compromising situation, he purposefully grinds his hips against mine, sending a tingling pulse up from my core to my outstretched hands. "Who are you working for?" he purrs, knowing full well that I'm in no position to fight back. I grit my teeth and thrash, a movement that only works against me.

"I-Isn't it obvious?" I manage to say. "Interpol." He chuckles at my joke, and I feel something hard press onto me through his pants. "I'm guessing that's not your gun," I add, my voice wavering.

"I don't think," he traces a finger from his free hand down my side, exploring the curve of my body, "Interpol has any agents this pretty." He rests his palm on my hip, thumb tracing the hem of my shirt, teasing it up and tracing lightly the sliver of skin he'd just exposed.

My face burns up to my ears, and I strain my neck to peer for where my carambit had landed. I'd wipe that smug grin off this asshole's face, or maybe I'd carve it into him permanently. I clench my jaw as he resumes his sensuous contact with my lower half, ignoring the satisfaction that crawled onto his pleasant features in the form of a boyish, teasing grin. "Enjoy it while it lasts, _dipshit_ ," I curse, but it comes out far more shrill than I would have liked it to. He bares his teeth devilishly, hooking a calloused finger into the waist of my pants.

My breath catches, and I clamp on my lower lip, watching him through the curtain of my eyelashes as he draws his dark head close to the valley of my breasts, tickling my sternum with his hot breath. He doesn't break eye contact with me as he suckles softly on the peak of my right breast right above the neckline of my shirt. I fight the moan gurgling at the back of my throat, and he nips the skin there with a wink. "It's time for me to go now, cutie," he chuckles. He's still toying with me, but I see the tense pulse of his Adam's apple. "I'll see you again before that little hickey fades."

Before it can go any further, I hear the scrape of feet against dirt somehwere behind me, above my head.

I feel the pressure of his body jump up off of mine just as a gruff voice yells, "ISHIKAWA!" There's a scramble of feet as my target makes a break for it down the other end of the alley, footsteps receding just as fast as my heart must have been beating.

DQ's hands pick me up onto my feet, and the sudden rush of air makes me stagger. I feel his arms support me, grasping my shoulders to steady me as his panicked gray eyes search mine.  
"What the fuck was that?" he asks, scanning me for damage. My hands immediately adjust my shirt, covering up the love bite, patting the Marrakech dust from my pants.

"I'm fine," I push him off, annoyed at his belittling tone. "Thanks for asking." I brush off the dirt from my shirt, twisting my neck until I hear a series of satisfying pops.

My eyes flit across the ground, looking for my knife. The asshole must have pocketed it on the way out. "You're damn lucky I got here in time," he comments. I hear the sternness in his tone, but his voice went in through one ear and out the other. "Who knows what would have happened to your dumb ass if I hadn't found you..."

For some reason, I wasn't as shaken as I was aroused by the situation. Despite our life of crime, something was missing, and now I know it's the excitement that comes with meeting strangers in alleys. Knife fights turning into a playful wrestle. Turning danger into fun.

Isn't why I started this whole charade six years ago? Because of the thrill?

"My back hurts," I murmur, walking past DQ, interrupting his sermon on my impulsive nature. "Let's get home."

As an extra caution, I ditch my button up in the alley, and untwist my red braids. I had no read of whether or not we're being followed, but whoever that guy was, to be able to sense my tail from nearly two streets down: he's good. And being good, in our line of work, means you are all the more dangerous.

Something tells me that this would not be the last I saw of the man from Marrakech.


	2. waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blessed day! after a scuffle in morocco, mona and her team have moved to establish rapport with their real target. despite their best attempts, her team is sidetracked once again by not just one, but seven, other thieves.

** Geneva, Switzerland **

**2100**

"I still think this is a bad idea," Sherlock says with a twist of her wrist, checking the time. It has been four days since Marrakech, and the Swiss air is a pleasant change from the dry desert sand that had plagued our throats just a few days ago. I check my watch too, out of habit, but looked only at bare skin. At Golightly's advice, or rather, her demand, I had swapped communicators--my typical wristwatch looked garish against the elegant silhouette of my dress. Instead, I wear a beautiful hair pin that draws my newly-dyed hair over to one side. The vibrations from the audio device are subtle enough that no one but I could hear. Both of my earrings are microphones, capable of capturing sound in either direction.

Golightly also disabled the "off" function. Go figure.

"Unless you think that El Idrissi suddenly changed his type to men, we have no other choice," I reply casually, pursing my lips in the mirror as I swipe a daring red over the natural pink. Outside we hear the clamor of a full orchestra, where I Watson has cleverly hidden himself among the second violins. By now, a clean-shaved Don Quixote was taking care of valet.

"They know two of our faces," Sherlock points out, fixing the tuck of her dress shirt. She's in banquet server apparel, responsible for watching my six while I get closer to the target.

"Two out of five is a failing grade," I respond. I throw my lipstick into my clutch. "How do I look?" I turn to her with a theatric flourish.

Though her face is brimming with worry, Sherlock offers an encouraging smile. "Like a _billion_ bucks." I leave first, smirking at her joke and tucking my clutch under my arm daintily. Sherlock would leave two minutes after me.

After a bit of a shake up in Morocco, and lots of bickering, the Truants decided to let me run point on the Donner Gala in Geneva as we had planned. Ever-watchful Golightly is monitoring the cameras, and at the first sign of trouble, I'm to excuse myself before things get out of hand. Morocco was for scouting, but finding nothing substantial there, we had to start on the next leg of the plan: infiltration.

Golightly had rigged the seating, the guest list, and, with the help of Watson's contact, the hotel reservations. I see Javier El Adrissi, Spanish-Moroccan oil heir chatting amicably with the other guests at his table. He's moderately handsome, but his deterring character cancels out anything relatively attractive about him. I've spent the majority of the evening chatting with him, pretending to take an interest in his business, and batting my eyelashes. Despite his engagement to supermodel and tech heiress Lena Yeun, he likes brunettes, and French girls, so we'd dyed my hair back to my natural black, and I played up a French accent.

We don't know where he gets his money from. He's filthy rich only because his father conveniently died, leaving behind a chain of oil and petrol companies behind for his son. News outlets reported that the two were on poor standing, and it came as a surprise that Javier was named the inheritor of his late father's businesses, adding them to his own collection of casinos, bars, and clubs. His net worth, however, is a complete low-baller, and the assets that he possess on paper are just the tip of the iceberg.

I take my seat next to him, crossing my legs so that the slit in my dress lay precariously close to the hitch of my hip.

"Done powdering your nose, Sandrine?" Adrissi beams at me, noticing my return. He blocks one nostril and makes a sniffing sound with mock gusto, and I force myself to let out a girlish laugh. I see his eyes flick down to my lap. The man he was talking to turns to look at me, and I take in his attractive, full lips and friendly eyes. _Why couldn't I flirt with a guy that looked like_ that. The scent of champagne and brandy waft over to me, and despite El Adrissi's sun-soaked complexion, a distinct pink flush was on his face.

Pretending not to notice El Adrissi's hungry gaze, I flag down a server, taking a new glass of champagne from his full silver tray. I didn't trust El Adrissi one bit: he could easily have slipped something into my glass while I was away with Sherlock. The server flashes me a dimpled smile, and I note the tinge of purple in his silver-toned hair. Pretty. We're not supposed to dye our hair too drastically, but I think maybe I'd like something fun, like green or blue one day. "Enjoy, Miss," he says quickly, before departing straight to the kitchen, his leather shoes clicking away on the marbled floor.

I return my attention to the table. After a moment, I sip the champagne, rolling the delicate stem of the glass between my fingers as I listen to El Adrissi drone on about his business in Korea. Laugh where necessary, throw a lip bite in. His interest, however, is wavering between me and every other pretty young thing that happens to steal him a glance as they walk by. I have him on the hook, and all I need to do is reel it in.

And finally, it happens. As easy as picking a lock. "Sandrine, listen," El Adrissi says. He places his hands over mine and I fight the urge in my throat to gag. "I'm having a party, in Spain," he begins. I latch on to every word as though they might save my life. "And you, you brilliant girl, you must be there!"

Hell yeah.

I beam at him, "Javier, yes, I would _lo_ -"

"Ah, Sandrine!"

"Who the _fuck_ is that?" I hear in my ear. This is the first time anyone had addressed me on the mission. It was a special skill of mine, being able to pay full attention to more than one conversation at once. It's why I excelled at infiltration: no one could collect information the same way I could.

I look at El Adrissi sheepishly, and he gestures just over my shoulder. "I think you have another admirer," he says, smitten, pink, and slurring. Before I can turn, I feel a hand clasp my shoulder. The feeling of hot skin on my bare shoulder makes my heart race, and I quickly tap into one of the earrings before anyone could pop off in my microphone. Whoever is behind me was only a foot away from hearing the chatter in my ear.

 _W-H-O._ I ask, tapping in Morse.

Keeping my smile plastered on my face, I crane my neck to see an unfamiliar face with a wide grin. He is a sharply dressed young man, maybe a few years older than me, with features that wouldn't fail to turn heads. His suit is well-tailored and grey, a stark contrast from his black hair and piercing gaze. The handsome smile he's got hardly reaches past his eyes, and is more of a smirk than anything.

Dots and dashes filter through the static, slow and off-time. I'm barely able to make out the short hand that comes through. _I-D-K._ Golightly was bad at Morse, but could break into a bank's security faster than most people could bend over and tie their shoelaces. As she pages through what I assume is a copy of the guest list, she taps again. _G-E-T. N-A-M-E._

Could this be the man from the bazaar?

No, I'm wrong. They're about the same height, but this stranger in front of me is of a more lean build, rather than the muscled physique of the man from Marrakech... And the intensity of those eyes... I swallow hard, maintaining my composure. I place a gloved hand over his, removing his hand politely. I can't cause a scene.

Despite my rejection, he persists, circling around so that he stands nearly blocking El Adrissi from my view. "I haven't seen you in years," he chimes. He seems bubbly, but not like soda pop--more like a chemical explosion building in a flask. "I'm Vante," he adds, clearly trying to establish an alibi with me.

This isn't worth my time in the slightest. 

I let a blank expression wash over my face, chuckling dismissively in an attempt to reassert myself with El Adrissi, who looks immensely jealous. "I'm so sorry, sir, but I don't know any one named Vante." I say, mispronouncing the name on purpose. "I think you must have the wrong woman, but--"

He interrupts me, his stare devilish as he deftly takes my hand, pressing a kiss to my gloved knuckles. His breathy baritone says, without skipping a beat: " _We met in Versailles._ "

 _A-B-O-R-T._ Those hard taps are DQ. He must be multitasking right now, placing the bugs in El Adrissi's Bentley and worrying about me.

I swallow hard, my lips stiffening into a silent "oh". I feel Watson's hard eyes pressing into me from his seat in the orchestra, where he was too busy to tap anything.

Versailles was our last operation, and the first time we ran into the Bangtan Boys. We had heard of them before, yes, but they had sabotaged our heist, and made us look like fools. Our stint in Morocco was also, somehow, busted by them, and somehow, they'd managed to close in on us yet again. Despite their annoying presence, I can't help but respect their incredible interception abilities. If there was any sort of competition within the world of heists, they always revolve around who can plunder the greatest steals. But with the arrival of the Bangtan Boys, they not only wanted to pull off seamless heists, but also beat any one else to the cake by a long shot. There's no way in _hell_ I let them beat us.

The man calling himself Vante leans down to my level, his hand still on my shoulder. "I see you remember now," he quips. He offers his other hand to me, turning his head to the side. "My apologies, Mr. El Adrissi, but may I steal her for a dance? This little vixen gave me _quite_ the cold shoulder last time I saw her..."

_A-B-O-R-T-A-B-O-R-T-A-B-O-R-T-A_

El Adrissi seems unbothered by the notion, nodding. "Of couse, as long as you return her," he states with a wink. "You're not the only man here that wants such a beautiful thing on his arm. Lucky for you, I am not afraid to share."

Before I know it, Vante pulls me to my feet, leading me by the hand onto the dance floor with the glee of a child. Baring a toothy smile, he brings me into the middle of the crowd, pulling me in by the waist so that we are only inches apart. I peek through the gaps in each couple for the quickest exit.

I hear the faint sound of static buzz through my skull. More Morse. But the sound is drowned out by the swell of the orchestra and the conversation that wafts through the gala.

Vante keeps a strong grip on me with one arm, the other hand clutching mine. If my expression was pleasant, we may have come off as a charming pair. But my mouth is set into a hard line, and my eyes drowsy. A simple waltz tune begins, and I hear him snicker. "One of my favorite songs," he says to himself, closing his eyes as the music envelopes us. At this distance, I can smell the scent of his cologne--sandalwood, hints of citrus. He's a good dancer, but my footwork is choppy, stiff.

I take a moment to glance back at El Adrissi, who has begun conversing with a beautiful young woman near the bar during the time it took for Vante and I to knead ourselves to the heart of the ballroom. Damn it. I'm missing my chance! Irritation builds up in my brow, but it's hard to even muster a blink.

I take a step out of our formation, ready to break our embrace. I feel a hammering pound at the base of my neck and through my head. There's an opening just past an elderly couple, and surely, this guy wouldn't try to shove past some senior citizens, right? But his arm tenses, and he opens his eyes abruptly, as though he expected my attempt to sever our waltz. He looks to his side at someone else in the crowd, smirking. "And... spin!"

Vante sends me twirling, twirling, _twirling_ into another set of arms, and the motion makes me even more dizzy. In my vision, I make out his black head bobs as it off towards the exit.

I hear the beginning movement of the Tchaikovsky. Only one more song until intermission. I could dip out of here and regroup with the others in the van. But my head is so fuzzy, and I notice my arms and legs beginning to stiffen. "V-Vante?" I stammer. The edges of my vision are feathering out, and I hear a disappointed _tsk_ from above me.

"And here I thought you and I had a connection..." Dejection and teasing filter through this familiar voice. "But Vante's already gone. I'm not surprised though," a chuckle emerges from the base of his chest. "He really captivates every girl that meets him." The arms that caught me are strong, and his suit is sleek, black, soft. "I think this new color suits you," adds the stranger, coiling a loose lock of my dyed hair around his finger. My breath catches in my throat when I meet his eyes. I muster my strength to look up at him, and yes, I know it from the curve of his nose, and the ambition that danced in his eyes. How could I forget a face like that, after seeing it so close?

I feel irritation rise to my features, my brows twitching together until they're knit. "You..."

He licks his lips as his eyes drop to the top of my dress, where his hickey peeks out at him. "You still have my mark, too," he coos, and I hear a faint ' _what the fuck_ ' in my ear. "What a good girl you are, Miss Ishikawa. I told you we'd meet again."

Like Vante, he keeps me pressed close, uncomfortably close, to his broad chest, so much that the heat radiating off of him makes me feel like we are back in the marketplace under desert sun. I lean my head on his shoulder, feeling the slowing thud of my heart pounding on the back of my head. Something is wrong, but what worries me the most is how long it to for me to take notice.

"Wh-what's happening to me?" I slur, voice trailing off in a pouty tone. The weight of my tongue and jaw make me feel like I'd had a wad of gum stuck in my mouth. "Guysss... sssomething iss..." My head lolls into the man's neck, and suddenly, I don't even care to finish my statement. I feel like a zombie, my feet are beginning to drag. His chest is so cozy, and I feel my brown eyes droop as I rest into him. He seems unbothered by the weight I had begun to put on him, and our waltz gradually turns into a gentle sway.

He laughs. "Darling, it seems you've had _far_ too much to drink."

A crackle in my ear. Whoever is on the other end doesn't care about keeping my cover any more, and honestly, I didn't want them to. I've been drugged. I never knew the feeling, but I must have been. I want to lie down and go home.

"Ishikawa, ABORT."

"Quixote get in there!"

"Don't mind me, _I'll just send one of my shadow clones in._ I can't be in two goddamn places at once, Golightly."

"Where is Sherlock?"

Their voices all melt into one distinct tone, and the words are barely intelligible to me. I yawn, and I try to look into the man's eyes. From what I can muster, through my bleary vision and heavy lids, he's heard everything. Our heads are too close.

I can't keep my weight up any more, and I feel one of my ankles give. Before I can careen onto the marble, he cleverly dips me, one hand positioned to support my neck, the other on my lower calf. All roofies aside, I'm sure it looks great.

He descends his head to the crook of my neck, lips brushing against my jaw. "If I can touch it..." he hums sensuously into the microphone. His breath is both hot and cold on my neck. I feel his mouth tug into a smile, and though the world around me was turning to black, and the music into white noise, I hear him finish:

" _I can steal it._ "

As hard as I try to hold on, I felt overwhelming pressure push down on me, a force that would have sent me sprawling onto the floor, if not for the strong arms that had already been snaked around me. 

Cold.

Dark.

Limp.

The lights go out in the ballroom, and when they come up, the room is two people lighter.


	3. empty threats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello readers! thank you so much for kudos and comments! for those waiting for smut, the chapters will be tagged with an asterisk, and trigger warned in their notes at the beginning. :) I have included segments in this chapter written in Korean, with romanized pronunciation in parentheses, and translation in square brackets. Please let me know if there are any errors!

** Somewhere near Geneva, Switzerland **

**2200**

"당신은 그것을 파괴 했습니까? (dangsin-eun geugeos-eul pagoe haessseubnikka?)" **[Did you destroy it?]**

"무엇을 파괴? (mueos-eul pagoe?)" **[Destroy what?]**

"버그. (beogeu)" **[The bug.]**

We're in a car, that much I can tell. It's too quiet to be a van, and I'm sitting upright with my seatbelt on, not cast away onto the ground. My vision is obscured, and by the feel of the fabric, it's a silk tie. My hands, are bound, in front of me, with something warm resting over them. Another set of hands, probably to keep me from freeing myself. My mouth is taped shut.

"Nnnn..." I utter through my nose, feeling a sharp throb in my head as we come to an abrupt halt. My head is lolling back and forth, my neck still too weak to support it, but the jolt sends me bumping into the shoulder next to me. Instead of sitting up straight, I let my head rest there.

"She's awake," I hear, in English. "And yes," affirms the voice next to me. It's Marrakech. His hand is the one over mine. "I flushed it back at that gas station."

I feel my heart pump as I try to remember how I got here, and Marrakech must have sensed my panic, because his grip on my wrists tightens. I let out a surprised yelp, and he silences me with a flick to the side of my head, the same way you would chastise a child. "Mmph!" I cry in protest. He flicks me again.

"Be a _good girl_ , or else Suga here," I feel the muzzle of a gun press into me from my other side, "might accidentally pull the trigger." I feel breath on my neck, and I smell sweet pea and melon, an odd scent for a man. He's right in my ear when he says, "And I can assure you that it's _loaded_."

I nod reluctantly, trying to remain fearless, but I feel the tremors of my heart flutter into my hands and knees. Blind, bound, gagged, with a bullet waiting for me in a chamber. I've been in a lot of compromising positions, but this one takes the cake. Marrakech leans back into his seat.

"Toll booth," says the man in shotgun. "Did the others pay for us?"

"No." Driver.

We must have been queuing for a bridge toll. Cause a scene, and I get rewarded with a bullet. But if we pull up to the window and the attendant sees me, then we all get apprehended, and probably go to jail. Amateurs.

I nudge Marrakech with my nose, nuzzling him. _Come on, guy. Take off the damn duct tape before we all get caught._

"What?" he asks. "You want this off?" He places a hand under my chin, rubbing his thumb over the tape that covers my lips.

I nod again. "Mmm, mmph!" I knock my head towards the side where I'm assuming the attendant is.

Suga presses the gun harder into me. His voice is dark, moody, and devoid of any color. Funny that his name is Suga, when he seems anything but sweet. "I told you, we should have put her in the trunk."

I sigh, rolling my eyes despite the blindfold, and my captor, sensing my exasperation, takes his other hand, lifting a corner between pinched fingers. "Remember," Marrakech says, his voice patronizing, "it's loaded."

The duct tape comes off in one swift pull, and I wince, trying hard not to cry out. I feel the car creep forward. Still blind, but at least I wasn't mute. "Unless you want _everyone_ in this fucking car to get arrested, you're gonna want to take this shit off me," I advise. It's for their benefit and mine. We don't get caught, and I can take a peek at where we're headed. Win-win.

"The windows are tinted," says the driver. "But, good try. Jungkook... shut her up again."

So, Marrakech was actually Jungkook, huh? Before I can dwell on it any more, Jungkook shuffles to face me again, probably with the duct tape in hand.

"Wait!" I hiss. "The human trafficking rings are big here," I add hastily. "And if they ask you to roll down the back windows _or_ to check the trunk," I spat indirectly at Suga, who _apparently_ had insisted before that I be stuffed into the sedan's trunk, "you're _fucked_ if they see me like this." I shake my restrained fists in my lap for emphasis. The men debate in Korean, and finally, I feel a tug at the back of my head.

The tie falls into my lap, and my blinking eyes scan the car. All four men had turned to face me, and I recognize the waiter that had brought me my drink sitting in the driver's seat, and Vante in shotgun. The only face I didn't know was Suga's, but I recognized his cool demeanour from Versailles. If I was right, the man with the gun was also hacking prodigy, probably better than Golightly. He had gotten into the camera circuit and was probably the first to spot us. Bastard probably leaked Quixote's face, too. I make note to be careful of him.

Jungkook undoes the tie on my wrists and I rub them, rotating my joints. " _Damn_ , you can tie a knot," I mumble, trying to bring the feeling back to my fingers. I still feel heavy, but much less so than when I first woke up.

So, the unnamed driver spiked my drink knowing that I wouldn't take the one that I'd left with El Adrissi. All of the glasses were probably spiked, now that I think about it--that's why he booked it back to the kitchen. Someone had probably taken out Sherlock... so why am I here? Is she okay?

We pull up to the window, and I hear the driver converse lightly with the toll lady, slipping her the exact change. My eyes drift up to hers momentarily and she raises an eyebrow at my slightly disheveled appearance and the zoned-out expression that must be on my face. "Are you ok?"

Suga prods me again, careful to have tucked the gun under his crossed arms. The barrel grates at my ribcage. I open my mouth to speak, and before I can say anything, Jungkook grabs my hand, lacing his fingers into mine. "We're _fine_ miss, thank you," he says, loudly so she can hear. "She doesn't speak English, and we're taking her home." The lie flows like water from him mouth.

"I was not asking you, _sir._ " The woman doesn't seem impressed by his answer. And honestly, I applaud her for it. No sensible woman would write off something like that. Her eyes turn back on me, and her voice turns tender once more, edged now with concern. " _Est-ce que ça va, mademoiselle_?" **[Are you okay, miss?]**

Four sets of eyes turned to me, caught off guard by the French. I feel two squeezes as a warning: Jungkook, who still had my hands trapped in his, and Suga, who made sure I remembered there was a bullet in the chamber. I sigh loudly and take Jungkook's hands, placing them back into my lap almost amicably. Daringly, he opens one hand to rest on my bare thigh, tracing a path with his thumb that leaves goosebumps along its path. Satisfied with our false alibi, I bat my eyelashes to the woman. " _Oui, madame. Je vais bien_ ," **[Yes, ma'am. I'm doing well.]** I respond. " _Il est mon copain, veuillez l'excuser. Il est très sensible. Mes amis, aussi._ " **[He's my boyfriend, please excuse him. He's really sensitive. My friends, too.]** I pat our hands, sending a flirtatious smile to Jungkook. He gives a handsome smile back, unaware of what I was saying, but cooperative in the lie nonetheless.

She returns our grins, chuckling. " _Ahhh, oui. Vous êtes un joli couple_ ," **[I see. You're a cute couple.]** she winks. Her gaze drifts back to our driver, his knuckles ghastly white on the wheel. "My apologies, gentlemen. Have a great night, and get home safely," she says to the guys, sending us off with a cheery smile.

I don't let go of Jungkook's hand until we're a couple metres away from the harsh white light of the toll bridge, and he retracts his hand from my thigh, patting it on the leg of his pants. He was so forward in Marrakech, but now he's acting like I'm a germ.

"You're welcome," I mutter.

"V-ssi," Jungkook says, holding his palm out to Vante. "The rag." He points at a cloth on the dashboard. Vante snatches it with deft fingers and places it into Jungkook's hand. The man I just let get away with my kidnapping cups the cloth in his hand, adjusting it so it will fit right over my face. I grit my teeth at his nerve. "Thank you," says Jungkook.

I drift off again before I have time to guess if he said it to me or Vante.  
  
  


When I wake, I'm sitting again, but this time, it's in a chair. No seatbelt, but like the last time I came to, my hands are restrained. A ziptie. I'd watched enough videos on how to get out of these.

It's not a dingy interrogation room like in the movies, but, curiously, what looks to be a penthouse. I look around at the sleek, modern furniture surrounding me. Not just any penthouse. A _nice_ one.

 _Note to self: budget for nicer safe houses_.

There are voices trailing from one of the bedrooms. Arguing, I think. Unluckily for me, Korean isn't one of the languages I speak fluently. Even if I could understand, there's a ring in my ears that's messing with my ability to focus. I can still single out individuals that I'd heard before, but just barely.

I'm still in my dress, but my hair falls loosely over my shoulders, having fallen out of the updo sometime during the drive. I spy my heels neatly set aside in the hall. I need to buy time. Maybe if I'm quiet, they'll assume I'm still asleep.

My stomach lets out an angry growl, and the commotion in the other room stops. Damn.

The first to come out is a man who probably wasn't at the party, judging from his attire. His shoulders are phenomenally broad, with perky eyes and a towering, tall figure.

The next two I recognize. One was Vante, still dressed in his suit from the gala. The other was the handsome man that El Adrissi was speaking to.

Following them is the driver-slash-waiter and another man I don't recognize. His teeth are perfect, and hair a tawny brown. Suga shuffles in after them holding a few loose leaves of paper, and in the better light he doesn't seem like the kind of guy that would shove a gun in your face. In fact, none of them do. They're well-above average looking guys, no older than their mid-twenties.

Jungkook is last to enter, his bare feet soundless against the tile floor.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. The legendary Bulletproof Boy Scouts, who everyone knew but no one had seen, were all lined up right in front of me like a magazine spread. I didn't know all of their names, but a twinge in my gut told me that I would soon. I'd say that if I tried to escape now, I'd most likely lose in a one-versus-seven, especially with the nagging buzz that still pesters my hearing.

"Damn," I say, tilting my head with a smirk. "You guys really _are_ as handsome as they say."

Crickets. Haven't these guys ever heard of an ice breaker?

I clench my jaw, slightly dejected at my own failed attempt at humor. I decide, instead, to size them up. _Who's the leader_?

The waiter with the pretty hair takes a step forward. _Ah, so it's you_. Suga hands him the thin stack of papers, and I can't help but narrow my eyes, trying to squint to see what is written on them. I don't have to, though. The man begins to read.

" _Ishikawa Goemon_ ," he declares ceremoniously. "The infamous and legendary ninja outlaw of Japan. A.K.A," he paused, raising a brow at me, "Mona Chandler, former university student from Baltimore, Maryland... Studied business and foreign affairs, ejected from school for plagiarism... Says here that your father was stationed in Okinawa before returning to the U.S..."

The color must have drained from my face. The papers in his hand are... my biography? I trace my footsteps back as far as I can. When did I slip up? How did they know this much about me? My eyes freeze on Jungkook, whose face is turned down, but even from under the long hair hanging over his downcast eyes, I see him play with air in his cheek. "So _that's_ what you did with my knife," I mutter coldly, just enough for him to hear.

He continues. "Wanted for," his eyes drop back onto the page, scanning through the words. He lists my crimes in one breath. "Forgery, treason, espionage, armed robbery, extortion, tax evasion, grand larceny... And that's just me summarizing it," he comments. I feel my gaze flicker to the other members, who seem to be taking an interest in the words on the page, too.

"So what are you?" I scoff. "The police?" I look at the empty seats arranged around me in a broken semicircle. "Why don't you guys sit, I'm getting tired of tilting my head up to look at you guys." I glare at the tall man with the broad shoulders. " _Especially_ you. Who told you to get that tall?"

My humor must have broken through to him, because he breaks out into a smug grin. One look from the leader wipes it off his face. They take seats around me, except for the man with the perfect teeth, who relaxes on the top cushion of the sofa. "Now," says the leader. "There's a lot on this paper that we know now... But there is much more that we don't." He eases into the round armchair across from me. "Wanna tell us?"

I mash my lips together, squeezing my eyes hard, but the laughter I try to contain comes out in a harsh cackle. "HAHAHAHAHA," I howl. I blink away the tears that had welled in my eyes, trying to regain my composure. "This," I hiccup, " _This_ is how you plan to interrogate me?" I wheeze, feeling the cool air race down my ragged, dry throat. Chloroform's a bitch. "You recite my biography, read to me the sins I already know? Who knows my crimes better than _me_? My _mother_ would have questioned me better than this, and she doesn't even think I _exist!_ " I break into a grin at their lack of backbone. "If you read the top part of that report you'll see--,"

"JK," growls the leader.

With my restraints, there is no way to brace myself for the blow that knocks me sideways. My cheek throbs from where Jungkook struck me, and to add insult to injury, my head rebounds off the cold, white tile. Before I can take another breath, I feel my chair straighten upright, and Jungkook backhands me across the same side of my face. The red stars I see are the same color as the blood that had pooled in my mouth. I spit it out in the leader's direction. My tongue, which was numb only a few moments earlier, now stings where I had bitten down on it.

"That's more like it," I retort mockingly. I look at Jungkook, his eyes dark. "Why don't you make it even and get the other side?" I spat. "I don't mind a beating, but I _hate_ asymmetry."

I hear a voice protest over my egging. "RM..." says the man with the million dollar smile.

"Not now, J-Hope."

So the last names I need are Worldwide Shoulders' and the other man at the party, the one who had chatted up a storm with El Adrissi. Ok. I flex my jaw, still glaring at Jungkook. With his build, he could easily knock out some of my teeth. So why is he taking it easy on me? Instead of accepting my invitation to rough up the other side of my face, he sits with a scowl, his fists wound tightly into pale fists.

I place what pieces I have together as quickly as I can. RM is the leader, judging by the way he seems to be the one calling the shots right now. Suga, the hacking and tech--he produced the info on me. Jungkook the muscle, the other pretty man must have been their spy or inside guy. Vante... I wasn't sure of yet, J-Hope was their demolitions expert, maybe? Shoulders had been incredibly silent, too, and I couldn't figure him out. Most everything in my head is speculation.

"So what's your angle?" I question. I mean for it to come out as a challenge, but instead it sounds meek, breathless. Every time I try to speak, I feel the hinge of my jaw click painfully. I'm still trying to collect myself from the unexpected blow. "Because I don't think you're going to be able to beat answers out of me the way you want to."

There's a moment of silence before they start conversing again in Korean. I hang my head, letting my eyes close for a moment. I'm actually tired now, not from drugs or the beating. Just... tired.

I hear the shuffle of receding feet, and I keep my eyes closed. "Jin, clean her up, please. And Jimin, find her some clothes."

I have my two names, now. Whoever cleans me up is Jin, and whoever dresses me is Jimin.

Jin, the man with the shoulders, hoists me out of the chair after cutting me free of the zipties. I have half a mind to show him just how easy it is to break out of them, but I'd save that for another day.

His touch is motherly and caring, and the sound of him wringing out a sponge is almost hypnotic. The sound of the water sloshing back into the tub is a nice distraction from the ring in my ears. Jin pats the swollen parts of my cheek, and I can't help but twitch when he drags the sponge over broken skin--probably the doing of the rings on Jungkook's hand.

I'm left in a comfortable room to change on my own. I note that the door that was once there had disappeared without a trace, save for the silver hinges still attached to the door frame. A neatly-folded pile of clothes awaits me on the bed, and I lazily shimmy out of my dress and panties, leaving them on the floor next to the foot of the bed. Slipping on the huge black t-shirt and boxers, I flop onto the bed.

I know I should have stayed awake. I know. But with each second, the dull ache of my body, the pulse at the base of my head, and the stutter in my heart seem to recede.


	4. aiuto!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> with a risky, improvised plan, mona proves to be a clever escape artist.

The soft snores that waft from Jungkook's now-doorless bedroom are overpowered by the sudden scrape of wooden legs on tile as they arrange the furniture back to its original setting. The men converse quietly amongst themselves in their native tongue, aware of the unusual eighth presence in their safe house.

 _"Aigoo,_ " sighs a bored J-Hope. "That was too much for me," he muses with pursed lips, his easygoing eyes grazing over to where Jungkook leaned. "Was it so necessary to hit a woman like that?"

Though nobody seems to vocalize their agreement, it is apparent on their expressions. Jungkook covers the reddened knuckles with the sleeves of his pajamas, lips tight and cheek puffed. His eyes are glued to the slick patch of red where their captive had brazenly spat.

"Just a scratch." Suga is typing away at a miniature computer without so much as looking at the keyboard. Whatever he's doing, he's doing it fast: the screen flashes from page to page as he absorbs montage after montage of information. "Nothing that won't heal within a few days."

"Any movement from her team?" RM inquires from behind a glass. Out of all of them, he seems to show the most fatigue. With his makeup removed, his tan skin shows signs of bruising, too, a gift from one of the girl's comrades before he managed to knock the other woman out and stuff her into a janitor's closet.

"No," Suga replies coolly. "Their communications severed after we dumped the bug. I can't monitor anything any more." There's a tinge of envy in his voice, but his features maintain the same poker face.

Jin saunters up to the group with a wide-mouthed yawn, taking a seat next to Jimin. "She's sleeping so well," he says. "I don't think we have to watch her," he gives another grand yawn, "tonight."

When everyone has trickled back into their rooms, it is Jungkook who is left to his own devices. Arms drawn around his legs, he faces the open doorway of what is typically his room.

 _She's clever_ , he thinks to himself. Perhaps she'd been up this whole time, feigning sleep so she could somehow slip away in the moments before the sun comes up. He's studied her files more than Suga and even RM. In fact, he'd had a copy of them sent to his phone from Suga's computer--without the other man's approval, but who gave a damn?--once they'd gotten a hold of her finger prints off of her knife.

For some reason, his feet swing off of the couch, silently padding towards the darkened room. Her hushed, ragged breathing grows in volume until finally, he finds himself leaning against the doorway, observing the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He doesn't dare come any closer, letting his eyes adjust until her can make out some of her features. Even with the swelling and bandages that mar her face, he still thinks she's rather lovely. Her lips are curled into a faint smile, and Jungkook wonders what she dreams about. Indeed, she looks as peaceful as Jin said.

Perhaps he stayed for five minutes, or fifteen, before he shuffles back to his makeshift bed in the living room. Deciding that someone who smiles in their sleep can't be cause for too much trouble, Jungkook turns off the already-dimmed lights, hoping to catch what sleep he can before the morning comes.

**???**

**Morning**

I jolt out of bed, immediately taken by the softness of the mattress. Despite the hangover-like pain in my head, I'm not confused: this isn't my room. Stumbling, my hands find the curtains, drawing them open quickly, and I let my eyes yield to the mid-morning sunlight that streams in as though the clarity of day might erase the dream from my memory.

Letting my eyes adjust, I spy the Duomo di Milano in the distance. Great. Italy. I had _assumed_ we were in France since the toll lady from last night spoke to me in French, but we must have driven through in order to get to Milan.

I didn't speak a lick of Italian. That was all Watson.

Rubbing my eyes, I adjust the collar of my borrowed shirt before wandering out into the common area.

It's quiet in the penthouse, but someone already went ahead and opened the blinds, revealing floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the fashion capital of Italy. A pillow and blanket lay at the foot of the L-shaped sofa. Someone must have let me crash in their room. I feel the cushions where one of my captors must have been sleeping last night, but it's cold to the touch. Whoever had slept there last night was long gone. Was everyone asleep? I stomp to one of the doors I see, jingling the knob. Locked. I bite my lip, trying another door. Locked.

I let out a huge sigh, swiveling on the balls of my feet and trudging to the front door. Also, locked. And the way it was reinforced, it doesn't look like something I can kick down on my own. There's a small red light by the lock, similar to what you might see on the outside of a hotel room door.

So I'm alone, locked in a penthouse, at the whim of whoever should open the door first. Just my luck. There isn't even a note, or any indication of when --if?-- anyone will return.

Out of curiosity, I traipse over to the glass windows, spying a handle. I twist it, not expecting much, but the handle gives and I push open the hidden door and let myself out onto the balcony.

The first thing I do is look down. From where I stand, there's maybe 30 or 40 meters between me and the pavement. Not jumpable, and there was no way that I could fashion a rope long enough with only two set of sheets. Can't scream for the same reason I couldn't last night: police were bad news.

One chaotic, invasive thought penetrates my head, and I run for the kitchen, hastily checking the appliances. They all seem orderly, and smell strongly of spice. I rummage through the cabinets, and I smirk.

I slam cooking oil onto the counter, grabbing as many pans as I can. I have no idea what time someone is going to come home, or who it's going to be, so I need to work fast. I turn all the stove tops onto high, pouring oil haphazardly into the pans. For good measure, I throw some oiled pots and pans into the oven, too. While those heat, I run to my borrowed bedroom, stripping the sheets off the bed. My hands drag on the fabric. Linen.

It'd make a good fire starter.

Taking the bundle in my arms, I plant the duvet, sheets, and pillows at the base of the oven. I take a deep breath in--the air is smoky, and the pans behind me erupt into orange blaze, just enough to set off the--

A loud beep blares through the penthouse, and my head, still a tad groggy from last night, thumps. Fire alarm.

Despite the rush of excitement, I try to keep my head screwed on. I glance over at the front door, and my thoughts whirr past. "For good measure," I say to no one in particular as I cover my nose and mouth with my t-shirt collar, scooting a chair and jamming it underneath the door handle.

I sprint out onto the balcony, screaming at the top of my lungs. "HELP!" I wave my arms down to the people below. "FIRE!" The pedestrians below seem startled, but some stop in their tracks, looking upwards. Right on cue, the sprinklers went off, and I hear the sizzle, crackle, and _pop_ of the flames behind me exploding. Smoke pours out from the open door. Panicked yells erupt from below. Trust me, it looks much worse than it is.

"AIUTO! FUOCO, FUOCO!" yells someone from down below.

I hear sirens in the distance and I cheer inwardly. _Fuck yes!_ That would be my ticket out of here. RM can now add 'arson' to my list of crimes.

The flames grow behind me and I let out another scream, high pitched and piercing through what must have once been a quiet Italian neighborhood. The sirens draw nearer, and I celebrate with a backwards glance back into the penthouse. These boys might be bulletproof, but _fireproof_? Not so much.

I see the red light on the door turn green, and my empty stomach churns. I'm quite certain that the fire department wouldn't happen to have access to a crime ring's safe house.

"조심해! (josimhae!)" **[Watch out!]**

The voices are muffled, but surprisingly audible even through the walls of the apartment. I take a step back and my back meets the metal handrail of the apartment. At this point, the smoke is billowing in harsh, toxic plumes. Even on the balcony, my eyes water. The door handle quivers under someone's manhandling, and I hear raised, angry arguing. Then, silence, save for the alarm and cries of the crowd below. Response times in Italy were pretty fast, but they don't seem to be fast enough.

Right then, I hear a crash. The door that seemed impossible to open is now barely on its hinges, with the chair I'd set in place now cast aside.

Through the smoky haze, I see J-Hope's wide eyes and Jungkook's fierce ones glaring right through the darkening clouds.

Fucking hell.

Shoving his teammate aside, Jungkook brashly charges through the smoke, and without thinking, I take a deep breath and gun it straight for him, too. Clear of the fire on the opposite side of the penthouse, but still in the smoke, I'm able to grapple him by the waist, knocking him cleanly onto the tile. Our eyes are watering from the noxious fumes, and he looks like nothing more than a bleary silhouette to me. I cough, and that's a huge mistake, because once I open my mouth, the smoke crowds into my throat.

"Stupid girl," he sneers, coughing too. "Are you.. trying... to kill yourself?" I roll to the side before he can reverse my pin, and kip-up onto my bare feet, positioning myself into a defensive stance just as he reaches out to snatch at my wrist. Despite dodging his low hand, I realize I've made what is quite possibly a fatal mistake, something even kindergarteners learn in school fire drills.

Smoke rises, and paired with the sudden movement of standing up far too soon, I feel immediately nauseous. Even Jungkook, who I consider to be healthy as an English stallion, seems weakened, stupidly huffing and puffing as though the stifling fumes weren't robbing his brain of oxygen.

I blink my eyes and drop onto my hands and knees and my breath catches. He's out cold, his face pale and expression strained. The sirens have stopped and through the clamor of the still-beeping fire alarms, I hear the urgent yells of the fire brigade below.

I feel my brain go to autopilot, and I lightly slap him on the cheek. I'm met with a sputtering cough and knit brows, but I'll take any response over nothing. Stooping over, I hook my arms underneath Jungkook's armpits, straining to pull him to his feet. My vision staggers more than my lungs at this point, but I can't leave him, for some reason. I grit my teeth and finally, with one great heave, I clear both of us out onto the balcony, gasping for air.

Steadying his back against the glass, I press my ear into his chest. Jungkook's heartbeat is shallow, and he wheezes softly before he coughs and spits black in the other direction. He moves to rub the water out of his eyes and I catch his hand, shaking my head. "You'll make the irritation worse," I mumble.

Time is of the essence. I lean in again, my fingers searching along the waistband of Jungkook's pants before I close in on cold metal and a rough grip. I hear him hiss in protest, and the cold air of his breath on my neck sends an exhilarating tingle down my neck. Pulling away hastily, I meet his mean stare before I pop the magazine out from his gun, checking to see if it is, in fact, loaded.

"I don't think that's the kind of toy you like," he says with only a little humor, trying to sit up.

I stifle a laugh, not only because I'd done well so far as to not break character, but also because the itch in my throat hadn't dissipated yet. "It's 2020, Jungkook," I reply. "Girls don't play with dolls any more."

The comment amuses him, because he bares a bunny smile like in Marrakech. Before he can say more, my eyes drift to the open door that lay past the wall of smoke. I brush myself off, giving him a proud grin that hurts the broken skin along my cheek. There's a lock of hair in his face, and my shaking hand tucks it back into place while the other shoves the gun into the waist of my underwear. With a mischievous wink, I bid him farewell for the last time.

" _Ciao, bello_."

Just as the firemen begin their ascent, I duck back into the flames, making a beeline for the hallway.  
  
  


My bare feet slap on the pavement. First order of business is a car, or some kind of wheels. There's an idled moped on the sidewalk, and I casually straddle the seat, strapping the helmet over my head. I guess that also takes care of the third order of business, which is to find a disguise. The helmet would do for now: it covers the purple bruise over the side of my face.

The second order of business is shoes and pants, because I'm still fucking barefoot and pants-less in Milan, of all places.

I gun it down the street, putting as much distance as I can between me and the penthouse. There's no time to worry about the man I'd left behind, still catching his breath in some stretcher, surrounded by Italians. My mission to reunite with my friends started once I'd slipped out of a second-story window. Despite protest from my body, I couldn't stop to rest, not now.

I'd been to Italy, but never Milan. My best bets for finding clothes are either a swimming pool or a mall, and since I'd be kicked out of a shopping center in minutes for being in my current state of dress, I had to find a hotel with a pool.

Like an answer to my prayers, I see the _Bagni Misteriosi._ Sneaking in is no problem, and since it's summer, there'd be a plethora of tourists and locals to steal from. Before heading in, I bump casually into a well-dressed man, apologizing in hasty, formal French, pocketing his wallet, and taking out several banknotes that I slap onto the counter before heading into the women's locker room. I barely give any regard to the attendant, who seems shocked at my disheveled hair. With haste, I turn quickly before she can see any more of my face.

The first thing I see in the mirror is my face, in all of it's throbbing, purple glory. I'm unrecognizable, and I have Jungkook to thank for that. Grimacing, I turn from the mirror and begin to fiddle with lockers until I find one slightly ajar. I peek over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching and when I'm sure that everyone is minding their own business, I slide the duffel bag out onto a bench. Working quickly, I strip, latching on a too-small bra and sliding into just-right panties. I shove the clothes I was wearing before into a trash bin, and slip into some snug, wide-legged pants and a summery blouse. I fasten the fabric belt around my waist while digging around more in the duffel.

I pull out a turquoise bag and unzip it, smiling to myself as I inspect the contents with a smile. My lucky day.

Hauling the duffel onto the counter and keeping it close to me, I make quick work of my makeup, concealing the hideous violet with a sandy concealer and foundation that is close enough to my skin tone. Tying my messy black hair into a haphazard bun, I grab the nearest pair of discarded footwear, a pair of comfortable brown ankle boots. The gun, which I'd kept concealed close to my body, fit perfectly in the space between my socks and shoes. Not wasting any more time, I cram the stolen wallet into my new designer duffel bag, and slip on a pair of large sunglasses that the woman next to me has left unattended. If she'd cared about them, she would have been paying better attention.

It sounds rushed because it is rushed. Take too long, and someone will notice. If there is any hesitation whatsoever, you put yourself in a position to be questioned.

Exiting the bath, I weave a grin onto my face. The girl that stumbled into the bathhouse was a disheveled, bruised, and nervous wreck. That's who they would look for. Not the fashion-forward tourist leaving the relaxing bath house.

With newfound adrenaline, I hop onto my denim-blue moped and turn the key. Now for the fourth order of business: getting the _fuck_ out of Italy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is most likely going to be smut >,<
> 
> I'm trying to not rush things as much but smut with plot is so hard for me to write, haha! why couldn't I be smart and just do one-shots... oh well!


	5. *temper/tension*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mona witnesses the might of jungkook's temperament, and the release of his tension.
> 
> the following chapter features scenes that may potentially trigger some readers, including depictions of torture/abuse, violence. the scenes will be noted with a bold trigger warning, so please skip ahead if such topics upset you. thank you!

** Milan, Italy **

**1400**

We have a few safe houses all over the world, and since I'm in Milan, the closest one would be in Paris, the same one we used for the Versailles op. That's where the rest of the Truants should be, too, given that it's also our closest safe house to Geneva, which is where we were for the Donner Gala.

How many days has it been? I have no idea how long I'd slept after that first night, but I'm certain it's been no more than two. I wrack my brain as I speed down the street, going far faster than I should be. The speed limits here in Europe are a fraction of American speed limits, and I like to go fast. But I right now, I'm going nowhere fast, and that's a problem.

I pull over to the side of the road, collecting my bearings, still feeling the high from the arson and everything that panned out after it.

There's a pang that hits my chest, and for some reason, I know it has to do with Jungkook.

I knock my helmet with the butt of my palm. "Stupid, stupid girl," I nag. I have to get that stupid man out of my head. I have to get to Paris, _somehow_ , without a passport or any identification. I made it this far, and I made sure that there was nowhere else to go but _there_. The only other place I could have gone to is a smoldering wreck.

I hear the blip of a police siren behind me. 

Turning around, I see a cruise car approaching me, also far faster than it should have been going.

How did I know it was coming for me?

Well, J-Hope is sitting behind the wheel, for starters, with Jungkook sitting shotgun, looking nothing short of furious in a police officer's uniform. He's recovered surprisingly well.

I kick up the stand on my bike, revving the engine as I gun it down the street. I need to book it, and fast. The other 5 would be nearby, and although I still don't know what they want with me, I _really_ don't want to find out. And besides:

Who doesn't _love_ a good car chase?

Seeing me blast off, I hear the sirens start blaring behind me. I need to get off this damn blue bike, but where?

I must be having good luck today, because I spy a rainbow flag a few blocks down from us, and as I draw nearer, hoots and hollers are audible over booming music.

"MILAN PRIDE, BABY!" I hoot through my helmet. I throw up a righteous fist into the air, flipping off the two men behind me as I blare the horn. I see the bobbing heads of the LGBTQ and their allies up ahead, and I stop right in front of a slim alley, blocking off the entrance with my stolen wheels. Grabbing the pistol out of my boot, I make a beeline for the other end of the alley where I can hide amongst the gathering of bejeweled parade-goers.

"Go, _go_!" I hear J-Hope bark from behind me, sending the cruiser to a screeching halt mere feet away from my makeshift blockade. Spritely Jungkook wastes no time, having already hopped out of the car. He jumps over my scooter with ease, using one hand to launch over it, landing cleaning on both feet before he takes off after me at a sprint. I can hear him panting behind me. He's speedy, but I'm willing to bet that I'm more clever.

I slip into the crowd, and I hear varied, " _Ooh-la-la"s_ when he joins me. He looks damn good in that cop uniform, and in a pride parade, he'd be eaten up like candy. I know I shouldn't have, but I look back at him anyways, my feet still marching, carrying me off into the rainbow sea.

When I feel like I've put enough distance between us, I squeeze into another side street, with chainlink at the end. On the other side, the street is quiet, peaceful, and nearly empty. Breathing hard, I've barely taken one step before I hear it.

 _Click_.

Whirling around, I see Suga scowling down the barrel of a 9mm, with Vante. Beyond the chainlink fence behind me, the thud of footsteps and tired panting.

Cornered. I think about the gun in my waist, but I don't want to test Suga's trigger finger.

I put my hands up, surrendering, and in four strides, Suga closes the gap between us, pistol-whipping me back into a black oblivion.

* * *

**TW//violence**

This time, Jungkook doesn't seem to be holding back.

His fist thumps into my solar plexus, and I feel the rope against my wrists tighten as his blow causes tension in my restraints.

I don't know where I am this time around. There are no windows to look out of, or chairs to sit in. Just three walls, two fists, and one-way glass. 

I suck up the dribble of sooty drool that hangs from my mouth, spitting it in his direction. "Heh," I murmur, jaw aching. "How many Boy Scouts does it take to catch a Truant?" I should shut the fuck up, honestly, but my pride always gets the better of me. I'm dangling from a harness on the ceiling, my toes barely touching the platform under me. They must have put it there so I wouldn't be suspended too high. Even with me hanging nearly a foot off the ground, Jungkook is still tall enough to see me eye-to-eye. And he is really _fucking_ pissed.

His only response to my taunt is a sickening kick to the ribs that sends the breath right out of my lungs. _Paris, Paris, Paris_. I chant in my head. _I need to get to Paris._

"Don't think," I wheeze, "this is how you say thank... you." He bears into me like a boxer with a punching bag, three quick jabs into my sides and another kick to my groin. The pain splinters through me like dry wood, flaking through my nerves in a fiery tingle. "At least not where _-oof-_ I come from." I dare to crack a smile. _At least he's leaving my face alone_. Suga really put in work with that gun, because that side of my face aches far more than the one Jungkook struck twice the night before.

His expression says all the words that he's conveying with his fists. He's either beating the shit out of me because he was ordered to, _or_ because his ego is hurt. Another fist goes straight into my back, knocking out the breath I had been trying to rake in.

 _Seems like it's a little of both_.

I spit again, and it lands right on his shoulder. "Bitch," he mutters, connecting a fist with my face. The momentum is so great that I hear my neck crack. The stars I see in the corners of my vision swirl out of the periphery and into full view.

To my own chagrin, I have only one choice, here, and it's to fight to stay conscious. No matter how tempting it is to pass out, the pain doesn't stop there. In fact, it only gets worse.

"Meant for it to land _there_." I gesture with a weak nod to the glistening slick on the floor, a mix of my blood and saliva and tears. "Sorry." The words come out strained and breathless, and I let my head hang for a moment while listening to the rhythmic _thud_ of Jungkook's boots, pacing ellipses around me. It's like a metronome, but instead of keeping me alert, I feel the dangerous lull of fatigue: I haven't eaten, hardly drank, and most of all I think I feel a dismantling pain in my chest. Every breath is laborious, and it feels like the only way to stop the pain is to stop breathing altogether.

Jungkook knows this too, it's clearly not his first rodeo. His goal is to keep me awake, but for what? Why? If I'm seen as competition, why not just... _get rid of me_? Why take me in the first place? Could it really be as personal as Marrakech? Or could it be Versailles?

Through the incoherent tinnitus that's been singing in my ears, I can't hear the sound of a switchblade, but I feel the cold line of its edge just under my collarbone. "Wake up," orders Jungkook.

The blade drags along my jugular and he taps my cheek lightly with the flat end. I can do nothing but groan. _I'm awake_ ,I want to yell. _I'm awake and I don't really know what the_ fuck _is going on here, but_ _I'm--_

I almost think that he'll put it down, that maybe he hears the desperate voice in my head, but I see silver slashing towards my chest, and I know his hesitation was just as momentary as the flip of a coin. Cold air touches the tops of my exposed breasts, followed by a warm stream of blood from the shallow cut. He nicks my arm too, in the same place I had gotten him in Marrakech. He presses the knife to the inside of my thigh, and this time I scream, a rattling, raspy attack on my already-dried throat. Out of instinct, I try to kick him away before he goes any deeper, but the erratic movement turns what should have been a clean cut into a jagged mess. Blood trickles down my leg.

**//end TW**

Whoever is on the other side of that glass must have decided they'd had enough with the display of savagery, because I hear a blip, and static, followed by: " _Kook_... That's enough." RM.

I suddenly feel the strain in my arms ease, and I collapse into the cement. I chuckle, blinking through one eye. The other is too swollen. "Not gonna... catch me... like yester-day?" It comes out like a croak. I still haven't eaten, still haven't drank water, and god _damn_ I need to piss. Like hell if I'd let them humiliate me even more, though.

"Clean up your mess," I hear over the speakers.

I'm caught off guard when Jungkook slips one of my numb arms over his neck, and carries me out of the room.

This time, it's Jungkook who is responsible for cleaning me up and not Jin. I start to sense that for some reason, I am now his responsibility.

* * *

We sidle into a bathroom, somewhere on the same level, and I grit my teeth when I'm lowered onto the tile floor, feeling the severed sinews of my flesh stretch.

"Can you stand?" I hear Jungkook ask in a low voice. My good arm is still hooked around his shoulders for support, but I strain to keep it there since he towers so high over me.

I can't withhold the bitter laugh that escapes my lips. "What difference does it make?" I question, stubbornly shrugging myself out of his grasp, wincing at the pain in my ribs. I can't tell if it's a rib fracture or a bruise, but the damage is much more evident now that I'm--just barely--on my own two feet. I steady myself with both hands resting on the edges of the sink, head lowered so I don't have to face the pathetic reflection. I'd probably scare myself into an early grave.

There's a grumble in Korean that I can barely make out, and I feel warm, unsteady hands on my hips. "These have to come off," Jungkook murmurs gruffly, patting the sides of my waist. My brows thread together in irritation at his timid demeanour. I recount how gracious Jin was the other night, how carefully the other man had been when applying salve to my broken skin, and how his eyes were careful to not waver. In this moment, however, I'm aware of the incredible restraint in Jungkook's voice and hands as he fights for eye contact in the mirror, as though he's somehow trying to prove that he's a good man. "I'm going to count to three..."

"Why count? Just fuckin' do i--agh, _fuck!_ " I hiss as he tugs my pants down to my knees. Hearing my utterance of pain, Jungkook carefully peels the remaining fabric, which is plastered to my legs, down to the ankles, tapping the backs of my legs gently to remind me to step out of them. There's a soft rustle as he throws the ruined fabric into a waste bin. I'm led to the toilet, and I gratefully take a seat, able to rest my legs even if it's for a moment.

After the harrowing task of removing my blouse (which caused more pain than I'd care to admit) I'm left sitting on the edge of the toilet, and I shoo him away with one hand, covering my bloodied chest with an equally bloodied hand. "Fuck off," I grit, hoping to get a moment of privacy. He catches my wrist and twists, hard enough to elicit a yelp, but I slap his hand away with what strength I can muster. "I need to _pee_ , asshole," I counter spitefully. He releases my arm, leaving the bathroom door open so he can keep tabs on me.

When he hears the flush, he shuffles back inside, now bearing a towel and soap.

I'm still shivering in my underwear, and I catch his eyes lingering. My bra is far too small, pushing my heaving breasts high, and before I can comment on his hungry gaze, he turns on the shower, letting the water run until it steams. 

Sensing that I'm going to have to hop in myself, I stand up and turn away from him. I strain to unclasp my bra, fighting tears as I feel the sinews of my beaten arms stretch to reach my back. Even when I'm able to finally reach the dip of my spine, I struggle with the clasps, my arms still sore, numb, and tingling, all at the same time. Deft, impatient fingers reach up from behind me and undo the hooks. Thumbs hook into either side of my panties, and Jungkook pulls them down to my ankles, maneuvering carefully around the cut in my thigh.

Confusion manifests on my face at his painstakingly gentle handling--just a moment ago I'd witnessed a fearsome flare of his temper with the scars to tell of it. The man who'd beaten me to hell and back seems hesitant, perhaps afraid, of so much as _looking_ at a bruise.

I can't ponder any more. He gives me a nudge towards the shower, careful to only touch the backs of my knees, and I scurry in despite the protests of my body.

The heat of the water on my open wounds and warm bruises makes me flinch. With the blood washing down the drain, I'm perceptive of how shallow the cuts are, even the one on my thigh. The blood had made the damage look far worse than it actually was. _At least I'll be able to wear bikinis again_ , I muse to myself. Closing my eyes, I let the water run over my face.

I hear the shower door pop open, and I'm startled to see Jungkook, naked, only an arm's length away from me. I can't help it--my eyes drop between his legs, and I catch a glimpse of his half-erect cock. Embarrassed, I immediately back myself against the tiled wall. "What are you doing?" I ask, words tumbling out quickly.

My eyes are still shut when he speaks. "I'm cleaning up my mess," he says, his voice straightforward, low. I open my eyes and I see that he's concentrating just as much as I am to not break eye contact. His stare is as intense as it is handsome, and the steam from the shower has already made the ends of his permed hair form into tapered, black locks. I say nothing when he approaches me with the bar of soap. "Turn around."

I turn obediently, letting the water run down my front. I'm not really in much of a position to make demands, and as much as I'd rather clean myself up, every move is torturous. He rests a hand around my waist, splaying out his fingers across my belly, and I feel a slick bar of soap glide across my back. I cringe when he runs the bar over the one of the spots where he hit me, and to my surprise, he plants a soft kiss where the bruise had begun to form. I shudder at the sensation of his mouth on my skin, and he lets a hand graze my ass, cupping it gently. He pulls me against him, and I feel the ridges of his abs, the throb of his cock. He digs his fingers into my skin and I let out a gasp as he dips his head into my neck, nipping and sucking on the sensitive, pale flesh before he resumes his task of lathering.

He stops

"Turn around."

I'm chewing on my split bottom lip, brow furrowed in concentration and bewilderment, when I twist to face him. His expression is a mirror of my own, albeit with no bruises. Jungkook's dark eyes are a flood of self control and desire, duking it out in pools of black and brown. He takes my chin in his hands, gritting his teeth. "Don't do that." I nod, freeing my lip from the grip of my teeth.

Facing him, I can see the lust in his eyes with every stroke of his hand. Suds run down the tops of my breasts and along my collarbones, down my arms and over my pussy, which, to my demise, is sopping wet with arousal. I can't deny the sickening chemistry that we have, the dangerous game of cat and mouse that's been going on since our meeting in Marrakech. Just like then, we're inches apart, and his hand grabs at my ass again, his other one tracing circles around the swollen pink pad of my nipple. I whimper again, my eyes fluttering shut.

Suddenly, Jungkook puts pressure on my shoulder, and my feet backpedal until we hit a wall. My head crashes against the pillow of his hand, and I open my eyes, sucking in a hiss of air when my bruised skin slams into the grooved tile. He has me pinned, one hand cradling my head and the other trapping me in. His breaths are hard, his pink lips inches away from mine. Dominance burns in his brown eyes. "What did I say?" he growls with a cocked brow. Timid Jungkook has left the building.

My body is so full of adrenaline that all the pain I had been feeling minutes ago is nearly gone, just a dull ache. I meet his eyes with my own ferocity. "Maybe don't touch me like that then, _asshole_ ," I scoff.

He must think it's a game, because I see an idea flit across his mind. "You mean like this?" he snarls in my ear. Before I can move his hand away, he slips a long finger into my eager opening, relishing in the way that my walls flutter at the foreign presence. His eyes are determined and narrow, focused on the soft "o" of my mouth when he swirls a nimble thumb over my clit. 

Before I can make a sound, the weight of his lips crush against my own greedy mouth, a kiss so hungry and explosive that I swear he had planned it all along. His tongue darts out and laps at my bottom lip that I had been nibbling on, the bottom lip he'd split open just an hour earlier, the bottom lip that had driven him feral every time I'd mashed it between my teeth. "Mmm," I moan against him, dragging an arm around his head even though the strain on my ribs brings water to my eyes.

When my fingers begin to knot into his hair, it sends him into overdrive, and his one digit becomes two. I spread my legs out for him, ignoring the pain that shoots out from my thigh. Jungkook claps a hand over my mouth to silence my pleasure as he trails needy kisses down my jaw, my neck, until he finds his target: my right nipple. His fingers kept at their work, pumping, swirling, fucking me. He kneads gently on my nipple, and I moan again, the sound a mere rumble against his palm.

"F-Fuck, Jungkook," I say through his hand. He removes it and gives me his middle finger to suck on, which I do half-heartedly. I can't focus at all.

He comes back up for more kisses, which I generously share with him, letting my hands trail wildly across his muscular body. He's built like an athlete, and even though I'd guessed he was strong, no one could have ever told me that underneath his oversized clothes was a perfectly defined and chiseled-from-stone physique. The peaks of his broad chest glisten with sprays of water, and his needy mouth is fastened to my tit, biting and sucking like somehow it would kiss him back.

I feel a knot build in my stomach, just as he quickens the pace of his fingers. There's a grin tugging his lips into a smug arc because he's sensed it far before I have, he's felt the tension of my womanhood and the warmth dripping down his wrist. Oh no, no way...

"I-I'm... gonna," I squeal. The mischievous devil straightens up, adhering his mouth to my neck, letting out a satisfied rumble that resonates in my own chest too.

"Cum for me," he whispers, nipping at the tender lobe of my ear. Jungkook brings his other hand to tease my nipple again, squeezing my perky tits. The pain crashes into pleasure, I let my head roll back and daringly, I grab him by the hair, pulling him up for more kisses. He obliges, darting his tongue into my hungry mouth, and I'm so electrified that I can't help but buck my hips against the feverish rhythm of his long fingers. "Cum for me," he repeats again.

And I do, squirming as my core spazzes against his fingers, still pumping in and out of me relentlessly. Before I can let out my whines of pleasure, Jungkook places his mouth over mine once more, and he moans into me, his low voice echoing in the tiled shower.

My climax over, I sink down, legs unable to support me. We're both breathless, and the shower beats onto us, the room steamy and warm. Shutting off the water, Jungkook leaves, and I feel a pang in my chest. Was that it? It was over? And then he'd just come back to beat me again?

Relief drowns out my anxiety when he comes back with a towel wrapped around his waist, hugging the V lines of his oblique muscles, hair dripping in messy black locks. He scoops me up with another towel, patting me dry before letting me lie down in a soft bed. I'm still half-conscious, but I hear him rustling around the room for a bit before he comes back, occasionally adjusting my body so he can clean and dress the wounds I have. Every time he gets up, my heart sinks with the thought of being left alone, but every time, he would come back. Bandage my chest, then my thigh, rub a cooling ointment over my bruises.

With a tender kiss to my forehead, I feel him get up and pull a soft blanket over me, tucking me in like a child. If I thought about it, no one had ever tucked me in the same way he did just now.

I half expect him to come back, but when I hear the _click_ of the lock, I know he is gone--once again leaving me alone.

Touching my newly-stitched leg through the bandages, I feel no inclination to run away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for reading this far! i honestly might go back and revise some parts of this chapter (or maybe even the whole story) just because i'm not entirely happy with it :,(. thank you also for your comments and kudos, they really mean so much to me! hopefully i can continue to update regularly~
> 
> i hope you guys all had a wonderful and safe halloween!


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